


This Boardwalk Life is Through

by likeadeuce



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-14
Updated: 2010-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-07 06:39:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeadeuce/pseuds/likeadeuce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fred and Gunn go to the carnival, and figure out how to keep being  friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Boardwalk Life is Through

Fred pushes through the door of the Hyperion, a few steps ahead of Wesley and Charles. After several hours at Wolfram &amp; Hart, she is ready to fall down and kiss the familiar ground. Then she looks at the floor: rumpled newspapers, candy wrappers, a pair of socks and – she doesn't want to think about what that stain might be. Of course, this isn't the first time they've all come back from a mission to find the hotel in a shambles.

It will, apparently, be the last.

"You know, guys," she says. "If a devoted cult of crazy-hell-goddess worshippers is going to abandon her at the first sign of trouble. . ." She stoops to pick up a can. "-- they at least ought to have the decency to pick up some trash."

"Word," says Charles. He stands behind her, arms crossed, surveying the damage. "I'm going to make an executive decision. . ."

Wesley says, tonelessly, "I don't think you get to do that."

"Only Angel does?" Charles demands.

"That would be the general idea behind a Chief Executive Officer." Wesley uses the sardonic tone that has lately been his default mode in talking to Charles. But underneath, Fred hears a brittle weariness that she first noticed back at the firm.

"Guys --" she begins.

"You know what, Wes?" says Charles, "Mister Hail-to-the-Chief ran off to wherever your dead girlfriend sent him to see this Connor person. . ."

"Sunnydale," Wesley says flatly. He walks past them both, toward Angel's office.

"You think 'Connor' is a code name for Buffy?" Fred calls after him. "Maybe it's her porn star name. You know, the name of your first pet and the street you grew up on –"

"Her porn star name isn't 'Buffy'?" Charles demands.

Wesley turns slowly. "I have no idea who 'Connor' is. But as for Angel's destination, Sunnydale is a logical deduction. Faith and Willow told us how bad things were at the Hellmouth, and now that situation in Los Angeles is under control. . ."

"So it's like when the Fantastic Four run out of bad guys to fight," says Charles, "so Reed Richards pops over to help out the _X-men_?"

"If I had any idea what you were talking about, the answer would probably be 'yes.'"

"I hate crossovers," Gunn grumbles.

In order to stave off insanity during the first months in Pylea, Fred may or may not (looking back, it's all kind of vague) have invented stories involving Mr. Fantastic taking a road trip with Wolverine. But she feels they may be straying from the subject, and attempts to rope the conversation back in. "So, Charles. Since Angel's not here -- What was your executive idea?"

"Maid service," he answers. "Lorne's already hightailed it to the Beverly Hilton. We take what we need out of this place, get rooms in a hotel – an actual working hotel – and bill it all to the new bosses. Then on Monday, my first act as an employee of Wolfram &amp; Hart will be to call in a professional cleaning crew."

Wesley nods slowly, his eyes wandering from the garbage-and-demon-blood strewn floor up the ornate walls to the winding staircase. "Good idea. A cleaning crew. Or wreckers."

"Don't say that!" Fred gasps. They both stare at her, and Fred says. "This place has so many –"

"Good memories?" Charles demands. Wesley just looks down and pinches the bridge of his nose, as though adjusting glasses that aren't there.

"Yes," she says. "All right, bad ones too – lots of bad ones, but – since I've been back from Pylea, this is the only home – the only place. Where I got to know you – and you – and Angel, and Cordelia, and –"

Wesley looks up. "I don't live here."

Charles blinks. "They put you in charge of stating the obvious department?"

"I don't live here," Wesley repeats. "I haven't worked here from some time. I don't have anything here. To gather and take home." He shakes his head. "I suppose that should have been obvious. Only –" He looks at each of the others in turn. "I'm not entirely sure where my mind has gone."

"You need some rest," Fred says gently.

"Clearly," Wesley answers. "I'll see you all, then. On Monday."

As soon as he's out the door, Charles whistles. "Damn, but he's pretty out of it. Wonder what he saw on that tour."

"I asked him," Fred says quietly. "He told me 'books.' But you're right. I've seen zombies with more zest for life."

"You think they made him a zombie?" Gunn muses. "'Cause we had a deal. If he gets undead, I get to cut his head off."

Fred whirls on him. "Stop!"

He backs off, holding out his arms. "Joke, Fred."

"Not funny, Charles," she answers, evenly, then turns to the stairs. "I'm going to go pack."

"Fred!" Charles calls after her. Upstairs, she slams the door and looks around, wondering where the hell she is going to start.

*

As a compromise, she doesn't start. All right, it's not exactly a compromise, since she doesn't have anybody to compromise with, but the idea sounds good in her head. Anyway, maybe the whole appearance of back-to-normality is just that -- an appearance. Any minute now, there could be another apocalypse, and then she won't have to think about packing an overnight bag and leaving this place forever. The walls she wrote on – the ones her parents and everyone helped her whitewash over. The first real bed she had in five years; the one she shared with Charles.

A few outfits, a couple books, Feigenbaum. It will take her five minutes to pack, and she could leave everything else here. For cleaners. Or movers. Or wreckers. She could stay at a hotel or at the lab for a few days. With what the firm will be paying her, she could afford to replace everything she owned. She could make a new Fred.

A knock on the door breaks into her thoughts.

"Come in." She stands, moving to push her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, then realizes she is wearing a skirt, and reaches into the khaki blazer instead. She guesses she will have to get more skirts. What the hell is the twenty-eight-year-old president of research and development for a multinational corporation supposed to wear to work every day? She is afraid that it probably involves pantyhose. "Listen, Charles," she says, as he steps in the door. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you but. . ."

"Put on some blue jeans."

"Huh?" He has changed into a hooded sweatshirt and jeans of his own.

"Come downstairs. I gotta show you something." Just as quickly, he's gone.

It isn't exactly an apocalypse, but it is an excuse not to pack.

*

Fred meets Charles at the front door, and he hustles her to the curb. "Look at that."

"Wow, it's. . .did you do that?" His old truck stands there – or at least, a vehicle shaped like his old truck. But fresh paint gleams in the streetlight, the hubcaps shine and, when she goes to check the windshield for dings and cracks, the glass looks as good as new.

"I found it like this," he says. "I figured after all the chaos it would have taken a beating but –"

"Courtesy of our new bosses?"

"I guess. And possibly, elves." He knocks on the side window. "Because that's a lot of work that got done fast."

Fred touches the hood. "Well, that's nice –"

"Climb in."

Fred blinks. "I'm not done packing."

"We can come back here later. Right now, I just want to drive this baby." Charles reaches over her back to pull open the passenger door. "My lady, your chariot." He pats the seat. "Check out this sweet new leather interior."

She runs her fingers over the soft surface. Pushing her finger down and releasing it, she watching the leather ease back into shape. "This is nice." Moving back her hand, she almost hits his elbow, and they step too-quickly away from each other. "So what's the deal? You want me to ride with you so you can show off rolling in your new hooptie?"

"I want you to ride because you're my friend. And you love this truck almost as much as I do. 'Sides, it's more fun than driving alone." He offers his arm to help her up into the cab. As she settles in, he shakes his head. "And you did _not_ just say 'hooptie.'"

"I'm willing to believe that if you are."

Charles grins, then gets into the driver's seat and starts to turn the key. Fred touches his hand. "Wait, if our new bosses did this -- do you think there could be a bomb?"

"I already looked under the hood."

"And in the undercarriage?"

"And I checked out the ignition." He starts the engine, releasing a purr. "Did I mention the brand new motor in this baby?" He pulls away from the curb. "You know, with what we may be walking into on Monday, 'exploding car' seems like the least of our worries."

Fred can't argue so she reaches to turn on the CD player. A gravely voice greets her. ". . _Me I just got tired of hangin' in them dusty arcades bangin' them pleasure machines._"

Fred blinks, "Is that my Bruce Springsteen CD?"

"The one I bought for you, so you could play it in my car, yeah."

"But you've been listening?" It was in the middle of song. What else could that mean?

"Maybe it was the elves." Charles turns the wheel to do a one-eighty in the middle of the street. "Do you realize this song has a completely serious metaphor about getting a T-shirt caught in the Tilt-a-Whirl?"

"I'm not sure it's so much a metaphor as –" He gives her a look, and she says, "So, where are we going?"

"Your friend Bruce just gave me an idea."

*

It turns out that the best way to gauge LA's level of normality, after a rain of fire, near-apocalypse, and mass-brainwashing, is a visit to Friday-night fireworks at the Santa Monica pier.

He parks the truck near the water. They get out and sit on opposite sides of the hood. Fred reaches down again to feel the smooth, new paint. She almost grazes Charles' fingers, then brings her hand up into her lap.

Two teenagers run by, laughing. "I can't believe all these people are out," says Fred.  
"Don't they remember --?"

"Last week?" he asks. "Two days ago? Probably. What are they gonna do about it, though?" Charles reaches into his jacket for a stake and twirls it his hand. "City ain't never been safe. May as well have a party."

"You've always known the world wasn't safe," Fred says quietly.

"Pretty much."

"Wesley, too. Hearing about monsters and vampires since he was a little kid. Me, I had to learn." Seven years ago, in a library. Again and again, ever since.

"Well, you're not any worse of fighter for it."

"Thanks, I think." She stands and stretches. "Come on, we've got our stakes. Let's walk down and see if the merry-go-round's up and running."

It is. There's a line. A line for the cotton candy, a line out the door at the arcade.

"It's possible," says Charles, "that near-Apocalypse actually helps the entertainment business."

"Oooh!" says Fred. "Wow! It might be worth commissioning some research to do a Steven Levitt-style regression analysis. . ." She glances up at Charles. "I'd credit you for the idea. Obviously."

He smiles. "You know what? You can have that as a freebie." They walk in silence for while, the laughter and noise of the surrounding crowd washing over them. "Look, I can play nice with Wesley if that's what you want."

"It isn't," she says, and when he turns in surprise. "I mean, I don't want you to play."

"Oh, so I have to be nice and mean it?"

"We made this deal. We're all going to have to work together."

"It's a big office," he grunts.

"I don't want it to feel like one. Remember when we were all friends?"

"Was that when Wes was chasing you with an axe?" he asks. "Or when my old crew had a crossbow at your neck?"

"The good old days weren't always good," she sighs. "Point taken. But, I just want – maybe this is selfish of me, but I keep thinking that I'd give up a lot if the group of us could just have some peace."

"Peace," Charles repeats. "Way I remember it, we had a little of that. Working up to a lot. All great big global-scale- like. Then some girl came along and decided peace wasn't such a great thing. Truth was more important."

"Who was that?" Fred mumbles. "She sounds like an idiot."

"Hey." He puts a hand on Fred's shoulder, and she looks up. "That's my best friend you're talking about."


End file.
